THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  THE  HARBOR 


ULTIMA  THULE.— PART  H. 

I 

BY 

HENEY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


'  Ultima  Thule  !  Utmost  Isle .' 
Here  in  thy  harbors  for  a  while 
We  lower  our  sails;  a  while  we  rest 
From  the  unending,  endless  quest " 


BOSTON 

HOTTGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
New  York:    11    East  Seventeenth  Street 


1882 


Copyright,  1882, 
BY  ERNEST  LONGFELLOW,  ADMINISTRATOR. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Co. 


PS 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS. 

PAGE 

BECALMED 9 

HERMES  TRISMEGISTUS       11 

THE  POET'S  CALENDAR 16 

MAD  RIVER,  IN  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS 24 

AUF    WlEDERSEHEN 28 

THE  CHILDREN'S  CRUSADE 31 

THE  CITY  AND  THE  SEA 39 

SUNDOWN       40 

PRESIDENT  GARFIELD 41 

DECORATION  DAT       42 

CHIMES H 44 

FOUR  BT  THE  CLOCK 45 

THE  FOUR  LAKES  OP  MADISON 46 

MOONLIGHT 48 

To  THE  AVON 51 

ELEGIAC  VERSE 53 

A  FRAGMENT      ..»-.« 59 

THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  BLAS      60 


iv  CONTENTS. 

TRANSLATIONS. 

PAGE 

PRELUDE 67 

FROM  THE  FRENCH 69 

THE  WINE  OP  JURANCJON 71 

AT  LA  CHAUDEATT 73 

A  QUIET  LIFE 75 

PERSONAL  POEMS. 

Loss  AND  GAIN 79 

AUTUMN  WITHIN 80 

VICTOR  AND  VANQUISHED 81 

MEMORIES 82 

MY  BOOKS 83 

L'ENVOI. 

POSSIBILITIES ,    .  87 


NOTE. 

THIS  volume  contains  all  of  Mr.  Longfellow's 
imprinted  poems  which  will  be  given  to  the 
public,  with  the  exception  of  two  sonnets  re 
served  for  his  Biography,  and  "  Michael  An- 
gelo,"  a  dramatic  poem,  which  will  be  published 
later. 

"The  Children's  Crusade"  was  left  unfin 
ished.  It  is  founded  upon  an  event  which  oc 
curred  in  the  year  1212.  An  army  of  twenty 
thousand  children,  mostly  boys,  under  the  lead 
of  a  boy  of  ten  years,  named  Nicolas,  set  out 
from  Cologne  for  the  Holy  Land.  When  they 
reached  Genoa  only  seven  thousand  remained. 


vi  NOTE. 

There,  as  the  sea  did  not  divide  to  allow  them 
to  march  dry-shod  to  the  East,  they  broke  up. 
Some  got  as  far  as  Rome ;  two  ship-loads  sailed 
from  Pisa,  and  were  not  heard^  of  again ;  the 
rest  straggled  back  to  Germany. 


POEMS. 


BECALMED. 

BECALMED  upon  the  sea  of  Thought, 
Still  unattained  the  land  it  sought, 
My  mind,  with  loosely-hanging  sails, 
Lies  waiting  the  auspicious  gales. 

On  either  side,  behind,  before, 
The  ocean  stretches  like  a  floor,  — 
A  level  floor  of  amethyst, 
Crowned  by  a  golden  dome  of  mist. 

Blow,  breath  of  inspiration,  blow ! 
Shake  and  uplift  this  golden  glow ! 
And  fill  the  canvas  of  the  mind 
With  wafts  of  thy  celestial  wind. 


10  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

Blow,  breath  of  song!  until  I  feel 
The  straining  sail,  the  lifting  keel, 
The  life  of  the  awakening  sea, 
Its  motion  and  its  mystery ! 


HERMES  TRISMEGISTUS. 

As  Seleucus  narrates,  Hermes  described  the  principles  that  rank 
as  wholes  in  two  myriads  of  books ;  or,  as  we  are  informed  by 
Manetho,  he  perfectly  unfolded  these  principles  in  three  myriads 
six  thousand  five  hundred  and  twenty-five  volumes.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Our  ancestors  dedicated  the  inventions  of  their  wisdom  to 
this  deity,  inscribing  all  their  own  writings  with  the  name  of  Her 
mes.  —  IAMBLICUS. 

STILL  through  Egypt's  desert  places 

Flows  the  lordly  Nile, 
From  its  banks  the  great  stone  faces 

Gaze  with  patient  smile. 
Still  the  pyramids  imperious 

Pierce  the  cloudless  skies, 
And  the  Sphinx  stares  with  mysterious, 

Solemn,  stony  eyes. 

But  where  are  the  old  Egyptian 
Demi-gods  and  kings? 


12  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

Nothing  left  but  an  inscription 
Graven  on  stones  and  rings. 

Where  are  Helius  and  Hephoestus, 
Gods  of  eldest  eld? 

Where  is  Hermes  Trismegistus, 
Who  their  secrets  held? 

Where  are  now  the  many  hundred 

Thousand  books  he  wrote? 
By  the  Thaumaturgists  plundered, 

Lost  in  lands  remote; 
In  oblivion  sunk  forever, 

As  when  o'er  the  land 
Blows  a  storm-wind,  in  the  river 

Sinks  the  scattered  sand. 

Something  unsubstantial,  ghostly, 
Seems  this  Theurgist, 

In  deep  meditation  mostly 
Wrapped,  as  in  a  mist. 


HERMES  TR1SMEGISTUS.  13 

Vague,  phantasmal,  and  unreal 

To  our  thought  he  seems, 
Walking  in  a  world  ideal, 

In  a  land  of  dreams. 

Was  he  one,  or  many,  merging 

Name  and  fame  in  one, 
Like  a  stream,  to  which,  converging, 

Many  streamlets  run? 
Till,  with  gathered  power  proceeding, 

Ampler  sweep  it  takes, 
Downward  the  sweet  waters  leading 

From  unnumbered  lakes. 

By  the  Nile  I  see  him  wandering, 

Pausing  now  and  then, 
On  the  mystic  union  pondering 

Between  gods  and  men; 
Half  believing,  wholly  feeling, 

With  supreme  delight, 


14  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

How  the  gods,  themselves  concealing, 
Lift  men  to  their  height. 

Or  in  Thebes,  the  hundred-gated, 

In  the  thoroughfare 
Breathing,  as  if  consecrated, 

A  diviner  air; 
And  amid  discordant  noises, 

In  the  jostling  throng, 
Hearing  far,  celestial  voices 

Of  Olympian  song. 

Who  shall  call  his  dreams  fallacious? 

Who  has  searched  or  sought 
All  the  unexplored  and  spacious 

Universe  of  thought? 
Who,  in  his  own  skill  confiding, 

Shall  with  rule  and  line 
Mark  the  border-land  dividing 

Human  and  divine? 


HERMES  TRISMEGISTUS.  15 

Trismegistus !  three  times  greatest! 

How  thy  name  sublime 
Has  descended  to  this  latest 

Progeny  of  time! 
Happy  they  whose  written  pages 

Perish  with  their  lives, 
If  amid  the  crumbling  ages 

Still  their  name  survives ! 

Thine,  O  priest  of  Egypt,  lately 

Found  I  in  the  vast, 
Weed-encumbered,  sombre,  stately, 

Grave-yard  of  the  Past; 
And  a  presence  moved  before  me 

On  that  gloomy  shore, 
As  a  waft  of  wind,  that  o'er  me 

Breathed,  and  was  no  more. 


THE   POET'S   CALENDAR. 
JANUARY. 

i. 

JANUS  am  I ;  oldest  of  potentates ; 

Forward  I  look,  and  backward,  and  below 
I  count,  as  god  of  avenues  and  gates, 

The   years  that  through  my  portals  come 
and  go. 

n. 
I  block   the  roads,  and  drift   the  fields  with 

snow; 

I  chase  the  wild-fowl  from  the  frozen  fen; 
My  frosts  congeal  the  rivers  in  their  flow, 
My  fires  light  up  the  hearths  and  hearts  of 
men. 


THE  POET'S  CALENDAR.       17 

FEBRUARY. 

I  am  lustration  ;  and  the  sea  is  mine ! 

I  wash  the  sands  and  headlands  with  my 

tide ; 

My   brow   is    crowned  with    branches  of   the 
pine; 

Before  my  chariot-wheels  the  fishes  glide. 
By  me  all  things  unclean  are  purified, 

By  me  the  souls  of  men  washed  white  again ; 
E'en  the  unlovely  tombs  of  those  who  died 

Without  a  dirge,  I  cleanse  from  every  stain. 


MARCH. 

I  Martius  am  !  Once  first,  and  now  the 
third ! 

To  lead  the  Year  was  ray  appointed  place ; 
A  mortal  dispossessed  me  by  a  word, 

And  set  there  Janus  with  the  double  face. 


18  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

Hence  I  make  war  on  all  the  human  race  ; 

I  shake  the  cities  with  my  hurricanes ; 
I  flood  the  rivers  and  their  banks  efface, 

And  drown  the  farms  and  hamlets  with  my 
rains. 

APEIL. 

I  open  wide  the  portals  of  the  Spring 

To  welcome  the  procession  of  the  flowers, 
With   their  gay  banners,  and   the   birds   that 

sing 

Their  song  of  songs  from  their  aerial  tow 
ers. 

I  soften  with  my  sunshine  and  my  showers 
The  heart  of  earth ;  with  thoughts  of   love 

I  glide 

Into  the  hearts  of  men ;  and  with  the  hours 
Upon  the  Bull  with  wreathed  horns  I  ride. 


THE  POET'S  CALENDAR.  19 

MAY. 

Hark  !     The  sea-faring  wild-fowl  loud  proclaim 

My  coming,  and  the  swarming  of  the  bees. 
These  are  my  heralds,  and  behold !  my  name 

Is   written   in    blossoms   on   the   hawthorn- 
trees. 
I  tell  the  mariner  when  to  sail  the  seas ; 

I  waft  o'er  all  the  land  from  far  away 
The  breath  and  bloom  of  the  Hesperides, 

My  birthplace.     I  am  Maia.     I  am  May. 

JUNE. 

Mine  is  the  Month  of  Roses  ;  yes,  and  mine 
The    Month   of    Marriages !      All    pleasant 

sights 
And  scents,  the  fragrance  of   the   blossoming 

vine, 
The  foliage  of  the  valleys  and  the  heights. 


20  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

Mine  are  the  longest  days,  the  loveliest  nights  ; 

The  mower's  scythe  makes  music  to  my  ear  ; 
I  am  the  mother  of  all  dear  delights  ; 

I  am  the  fairest  daughter  of  the  year. 


JULY. 

My  emblem  is  the  Lion,  and  I  breathe 

The  breath  of  Libyan  deserts  o'er  the  land  ; 
My  sickle  as  a  sabre  I  unsheathe, 

And  bent  before  me  the  pale  harvests  stand. 
The  lakes  and  rivers  shrink  at  my  command, 

And  there  is  thirst  and  fever  in  the  air ; 
The   sky   is   changed    to   brass,  the   earth   to 
sand  ; 

I  am  the  Emperor  whose  name  I  bear. 


TEE  POET'S   CALENDAR.  21 

AUGUST. 

The  Emperor  Octavian,  called  the  August, 

I  being  his  favorite,  bestowed  his  name 
Upon  me,  and  I  hold  it  still  in  trust, 

In  memory  of  him  and  of  his  fame. 
I  am  the  Virgin,  and  my  vestal  flame 

Burns  less  intensely  than  the  Lion's  rage ; 
Sheaves  are  my  only  garlands,  and  I  claim 

The  golden  Harvests  as  my  heritage. 


SEPTEMBER. 

I  bear  the  Scales,  where  hang  in  equipoise 

The  night  and  day  ;  and  when  unto  my  lips 
I  put  my  trumpet,  with  its  stress  and  noise 
Fly  the  white  clouds   like   tattered  sails  of 

ships ; 

The    tree-tops    lash    the    air    with    sounding 
whips  ; 


22  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

Southward  the  clamorous  sea-fowl  wing  their 

flight; 

The  hedges  are  all  red  with  haws  and  hips, 
The  Hunter's  Moon  reigns  empress  of  the 

night. 
i 

OCTOBER. 

My  ornaments  are  fruits  ;  my  garments  leaves, 

Woven  like  cloth  of  gold,  and  crimson  dyed ; 
I  do  not  boast  the  harvesting  of  sheaves, 

O'er  orchards  and  o'er  vineyards  I  preside. 
Though  on  the  frigid  Scorpion  I  ride, 

The  dreamy  air  is  full,  and  overflows 
With  tender  memories  of  the  summer-tide, 

And  mingled  voices  of  the  doves  and  crows 


NOVEMBER. 

The  Centaur,  ^Sagittarius,  am  I, 

Born  of  Ixion's  and  the  cloud's  embrace ; 


THE  POET'S   CALENDAR.  23 

With  sounding  hoofs  across  the  earth  I  fly, 
A  steed  Thessalian  with  a  human  face. 

Sharp   winds   the    arrows    are   with  which   I 

chase 
The  leaves,  half  dead  already  with  affright ; 

I  shroud  myself  in  gloom  ;  and  to  the  race 
Of  mortals  bring  nor  comfort  nor  delight. 


DECEMBER. 

Riding  upon  the  Goat,  with  snow-white  hair, 

I  come,  the  last  of  all.     This  crown  of  mine 
Is  of  the  holly  ;  in  my  hand  I  bear 

The  thyrsus,  tipped  with  fragrant  cones  of 

pine. 
I  celebrate  the  birth  of  the  Divine, 

Arid  the  return  of  the  Saturnian  reign  ;  — 
My  songs  are  carols  sung  at  every  shrine, 

Proclaiming  "  Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to 
men." 


MAD   RIVER, 
IN    THE   WHITE   MOUNTAINS. 


TRAVELLER. 


WHY  dost  thou  wildly  rush  and  roar, 

Mad  River,  O  Mad  River? 
Wilt  thou  not  pause  and  cease  to  pour 
Thy  hurrying,  headlong  waters  o'er 
This  rocky  shelf  forever? 

What  secret  trouble  stirs  thy  breast? 

Why  all  this  fret  and  flurry? 
Dost  thou  not  know  that  what  is  best 
In  this  too  restless  world  is  rest 

From  over-work  and  worry? 


MAD  RIVER.  25 

THE    RIVER. 

What  wouldst  thou  in  these  mountains  seek, 

O  stranger  from  the  city? 
Is  it  perhaps  some  foolish  freak 
Of  thine,  to  put  the  words  I  speak 

Into  a  plaintive  ditty? 

TRAVELLER. 

Yes;  I  would  learn  of  thee  thy  song, 
With  all  its  flowing  numbers, 

And  in  a  voice  as  fresh  and  strong 

As  thine  is,  sing  it  all  day  long, 

And  hear  it  in  my  slumbers. 

THE  -RIVER. 

A  brooklet  nameless  and  unknown 

Was  I  at  first,  resembling 
A  little  child,  that  all  alone 
Comes  venturing  down  the  stairs  of  stone, 

Irresolute  and  trembling. 


26  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

Later,  by  wayward  fancies  led, 

For  the  wide  world  I  panted; 
Out  of  the  forest  dark  and  dread 
Across  the  open  fields  I  fled, 

Like  one  pursued  and  haunted. 

I  tossed  my  arms,  I  sang  aloud, 

My  voice  exultant  blending 
With  thunder  from  the  passing  cloud, 
The  wind,  the  forest  bent  and  bowed, 
The  rush  of  rain  descending. 

I  heard  the  distant  ocean  call, 

Imploring  and  entreating; 
Drawn  onward,  o'er  this  rocky  wall 
I  plunged,  and  the  loud  waterfall 

Made  answer  to  the  greeting. 

And  now,  beset  with  many  ills, 
A  toilsome  life  I  follow; 


MAD  RIVER.  27 

Compelled  to  carry  from  the  hills 

These  logs  to  the  impatient  mills 

Below  there  in  the  hollow. 

Yet  something  ever  cheers  and  charms 
The  rudeness  of  my  labors; 

Daily  I  water  with  these  arms 

The  cattle  of  a  hundred  farms, 

And  have  the  birds  for  neighbors. 

Men  call  me  Mad,  and  well  they  may, 
When,  full  of  rage  and  trouble, 
I  burst  my  banks  of  sand  and  clay, 
And  sweep  their  wooden  bridge  away, 
Like  withered  reeds  or  stubble. 

Now  go  and  write  thy  little  rhyme, 
As  of  thine  own  creating. 

Thou  seest  the  day  is  past  its  prime ; 

I  can  longer  waste  my  time; 

The  mills  are  tired  of  waiting. 


AUF  WIEDERSEHEN. 

IN    MEMORY    OF    J.    T.    F. 

UNTIL  we  meet   again !    That   is   the   mean 
ing 
Of  the  familiar  words,  that  men  repeat 

At  parting  in  the  street. 

Ah  yes,  till   then!  but  when  death   interven 
ing 

Rends  us  asunder,  with  what  ceaseless  pain 
We  Wait  for  the  Again ! 

The   friends   who    leave   us   do   not  feel   the 

sorrow 

Of  parting,  as  we  feel  it,  who  must  stay 
Lamenting  day  by  day, 


AUF   WIEDERSEHEN.  29 

And  knowing,  when  we  wake   upon  the  mor 
row, 

We  shall  not  find  in  its  accustomed  place 
The  one  beloved  face. 

It  were  a  double  grief,  if  the  departed, 
Being  released  from  earth,  should  still  retain 

A  sense  of  earthly  pain  ; 
It  were  a  double  grief,  if  the  true-hearted, 
Who    loved   us   here,   should   on   the   farther 
shore 

Remember  us  no  more. 

Believing,  in  the  midst  of  our  afflictions, 
That  death  is  a  beginning,  not  an  end, 

We  cry  to  them,  and  send 
Farewells,    that   better   might   be   called   pre 
dictions, 
Being  fore-shado wings  of  the  future,  thrown 

Into  the  vast  Unknown. 


30  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

Faith  overleaps  the  confines  of  our  reason, 
And  if  by  faith,  as  in  old  times  was  said, 

Women  received  their  dead 
Raised  up  to  life,  then  only  for  a  season 
Our  partings  are,  nor  shall  we  wait  in  vain 

Until  we  meet  again  ! 


THE  CHILDREN'S   CRUSADE. 

[A    FKAGMENT.] 
I. 

WHAT  is  this  I  read  in  history, 
Full  of  marvel,  full  of  mystery, 
Difficult  to  understand  ? 
Is  it  fiction,  is  it  truth? 
Children  in  the  flower  of  youth, 
Heart  in  heart,  and  hand  in  hand, 
Ignorant  of  what  helps  or  harms, 
Without  armor,  without  arms, 
Journeying  to  the  Holy  Land  ! 

Who  shall  answer  or  divine  ? 
Never  since  the  world  was  made 


32  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

Such  a  wonderful  crusade 
Started  forth  for  Palestine. 
Never  while  the  world  shall  last 
Will  it  reproduce  the  past ; 
Never  will  it  see  again 
Such  an  army,  such  a  band, 
Over  mountain,  over  main, 
Journeying  to  the  Holy  Land. 

Like  a  shower  of  blossoms  blown 
From  the  parent  trees  were  they ; 
Like  a  flock  of  birds  that  fly 
Through  the  unfrequented  sky, 
Holding  nothing  as  their  own, 
Passed  they  into  lands  unknown, 
Passed  to  suffer  and  to  die. 

O  the  simple,  child-like  trust ! 
O  the  faith  that  could  believe 
What  the  harnessed,  iron-mailed 
Knights  of  Christendom  had  failed, 


THE  CHILDREN'S  CRUSADE.  33 

By  their  prowess,  to  achieve, 

They,  the  children,  could  and  must ! 

Little  thought  the  Hermit,  preaching 

Holy  Wars  to  knight  and  baron, 

That  the  words  dropped  in  his  teaching, 

His  entreaty,  his  beseeching, 

Would  by  children's  hands  be  gleaned, 

And  the  staff  on  which  he  leaned 

Blossom  like  the  rod  of  Aaron. 

As  a  summer  wind  upheaves 

The  innumerable  leaves 

In  the  bosom  of  a  wood,  — 

Not  as  separate  leaves,  but  massed 

All  together  by  the  blast,  — 

So  for  evil  or  for  good 

His  resistless  breath  upheaved 

All  at  once  the  many-leaved, 

Many-thoughted  multitude. 


34r  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

In  the  tumult  of  the  air 
Rock  the  boughs  with  all  the  nests 
Cradled  on  their  tossing  crests ; 
By  the  fervor  of  his  prayer 
Troubled  hearts  were  everywhere 
Rocked  and  tossed  in  human  breasts. 

For  a  century,  at  least, 
His  prophetic  voice  had  ceased ; 
But  the  air  was  heated  still 
By  his  lurid  words  and  will, 
As  from  fires  in  far-off  woods, 
In  the  autumn  of  the  year, 
An  unwonted  fever  broods 
In  the  sultry  atmosphere. 

n. 

In  Cologne  the  bells  were  ringing, 
In  Cologne  the  nuns  were  singing 
Hymns  and  canticles  divine ; 


THE   CHILDREN'S   CRUSADE.  35 

Loud  the  monks  sang  in  their  stalls, 
And  the  thronging  streets  were  loud 
With  the  voices  of  the  crowd ;  — 
Underneath,  the  city  walls 
Silent  flowed  the  river  Rhine. 

From  the  gates,  that  summer  day, 
Clad  in  robes  of  hodden  gray, 
With  the  red  cross  on  the  breast, 
Azure-eyed  and  golden-haired, 
Forth  the  young  Crusaders  fared; 
While  above  the  band  devoted 
Consecrated  banners  floated, 
Fluttered  many  a  flag  and  streamer, 
And  the  cross  o'er  all  the  rest ! 
Singing  lowly,  meekly,  slowly, 
"  Give  us,  give  us  back  the  holy 
Sepulchre  of  the  Redeemer !  " 
On  the  vast  procession  pressed, 
Youths  and  maidens.  .  .  . 


36  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

III. 

Ah !  what  master  hand  shall  paint 
How  they  journeyed  on  their  way, 
How  the  days  grew  long  and  dreary, 
How  their  little  feet  grew  weary, 
How  their  little  hearts  grew  faint ! 

Ever  swifter  day  by  day 

Flowed  the  homeward  river  ;  ever 

More  and  more  its  whitening  current 

Broke  and  scattered  into  spray, 

Till  the  calmly-flowing  river 

Changed  into  a  mountain  torrent, 

Rushing  from  its  glacier  green 

Down  through  chasm  and  black  ravine. 

Like  a  phoenix  in  its  nest, 

Burned  the  red  sun  in  the  West, 

Sinking  in  an  ashen  cloud  ; 

In  the  East,  above  the  crest 


THE   CHILDREN'S  CRUSADE.  37 

Of  the  sea-like  mountain  chain, 
Like  a  phoenix  from  its  shroud, 
Came  the  red  sun  back  again. 

Now  around  them,  white  with  snow, 
Closed  the  mountain  peaks.     Below, 
Headlong  from  the  precipice 
Down  into  the  dark  abyss, 
Plunged  the  cataract,  white  with  foam  ; 
And  it  said,  or  seemed  to  say : 
"  Oh  return,  while  yet  you  may, 
Foolish  children,  to  your  home, 
There  the  Holy  City  is !  " 

But  the  dauntless  leader  said : 
"  Faint  not,  though  your  bleeding  feet 
O'er  these  slippery  paths  of  sleet 
Move  but  painfully  and  slowly ; 
Ofeher  feet  than  yours  have  bled; 
Other  tears  than  yours  been  shed. 


38  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

Courage !  lose  not  heart  or  hope ; 
On  the  mountains'  southern  slope 
Lies  Jerusalem  the  Holy  !  " 
As  a  white  rose  in  its  pride, 
By  the  wind  in  summer-tide 
Tossed  and  loosened  from  the  branch, 
Showers  its  petals  o'er  the  ground, 
From  the  distant  mountain's  side, 
Scattering  all  its  snows  around, 
With  mysterious,  muffled  sound, 
Loosened,  fell  the  avalanche. 
Voices,  echoes  far  and  near, 
Roar  of  winds  and  waters  blending, 
Mists  uprising,  clouds  impending, 
Filled  them  with  a  sense  of  fear, 
Formless,  nameless,  never  ending. 


THE   CITY  AND   THE   SEA. 

THE  panting  City  cried  to  the  Sea, 

"  I  am  faint  with  heat,  —  O  breathe  on  me  !  " 

And  the  Sea  said,  "  Lo,  I  breathe  !  but  my  breath 
To  some  will  be  life,  to  others  death ! " 

As  to  Prometheus,  bringing  ease 
In  pain,  come  the  Oceanides, 

So  to  the  City,  hot  with  the  flame 

Of  the  pitiless  sun,  the  east  wind  came. 

It  came  from  the  heaving  breast  of  the  deep, 
Silent  as  dreams  are,  and  sudden  as  sleep. 

Life-giving,  death-giving,  which  will  it  be; 
O  breath  of  the  merciful,  merciless  Sea? 


SUNDOWN. 

THE  summer  sun  is  sinking  low; 
Only  the  tree-tops  redden  and  glow: 
Only  the  weathercock  on  the  spire 
Of  the  neighboring  church  is  a  flame  of  fire  ; 
All  is  in  shadow  below. 

O  beautiful,  awful  summer  day, 
What  hast  thou  given,  what  taken  away? 
Life  and  death,  and  love  and  hate, 
Homes  made  happy  or  desolate, 
Hearts  made  sad  or  gay! 

On  the  road  of  life  one  mile-stone  more ! 
In  the  book  of  life  one  leaf  turned  o'er! 
Like  a  red  seal  is  the  setting  sun 
On  the  good  and  the  evil  men  have  done,  — 
Naught  can  to-day  restore ! 

July  24,  1879. 


PRESIDENT   GARFIELD. 

"E  VENNI  DAL  MARTIRIO  A  QUESTA  PACE." 

THESE  words  the  poet  heard  in  Paradise, 
Uttered  by  one  who,  bravely  dying  here, 
In  the  true  faith  was  living  in  that  sphere 
Where  the  celestial  cross  of  sacrifice 

Spread  its  protecting  arms  athwart  the  skies ; 
And  set  thereon,  like  jewels  crystal  clear, 
The  souls  magnanimous,  that  knew  not  fear, 
Flashed  their  effulgence  on  his  dazzled  eyes. 

Ah  me !  how  dark  the  discipline  of  pain, 
Were    not    the    suffering    followed    by    the 

sense 
Of  infinite  rest  and  infinite  release  ! 

This  is  our  consolation  ;  and  again 

A  great  soul  cries  to  us  in  our  suspense, 
"  I  came  from  martyrdom  unto  this  peace ! " 


DECORATION  DAY. 

SLEEP,  comrades,  sleep  and  rest 

On  this  Field  of  the  Grounded  Arms, 

Where  foes  no  more  molest, 
Nor  sentry's  shot  alarms! 

Ye  have  slept  on  the  ground  before, 

And  started  to  your  feet 
At  the  cannon's  sudden  roar, 

Or  the  drum's  redoubling  beat. 

But  in  this  camp  of  Death 

No  sound  your  slumber  breaks ; 

Here  is  no  fevered  breath, 

No  wound  that  bleeds  and  aches. 


DECORATION  DAY.  43 

All  is  repose  and  peace, 

Untrampled  lies  the  sod ; 
The  shouts  of  battle  cease, 

It  is  the  Truce  of  God  1 

Rest,  comrades,  rest  and  sleep ! 

The  thoughts  of  men  shall  be 
As  sentinels  to  keep 

Your  rest  from  danger  free.  • 

Your  silent  tents  of  green 

We  deck  with  fragrant  flowers ; 

Yours  has  the  suffering  been, 
The  memory  shall  be  ours. 

February,  3,  1882. 


CHIMES. 

SWEET  chimes  !  that  in  the  loneliness  of  night 
Salute  the  passing  hour,  and  in  the  dark 
And  silent  chambers  of  the  household  mark 
The  movements  of  the  myriad  orbs  of  light ! 

Through  my   closed    eyelids,    by    the    inner 

sight, 

I  see  the  constellations  in  the  arc 
Of  their  great  circles  moving  on,  and  hark  ! 
I  almost  hear  them  singing  in  their  flight. 

Better  than  sleep  it  is  to  lie  awake 
O'er-canopied  by  the  vast  starry  dome 
Of  the  immeasurable  sky ;  to  feel 

The    slumbering   world    sink    under   us,    and 

make 

Hardly  an  eddy,  —  a  mere  rush  of  foam 
On  the  great  sea  beneath  a  sinking  keel. 

August  28,  1879. 


FOUR  BY  THE   CLOCK. 

FOTJE  by  the  clock!  and  yet  not  day; 
But  the  great  world  rolls  and  wheels  away, 
With  its  cities  on  land,  and  its  ships  at  sea, 
Into  the  dawn  that  is  to  be ! 

Only  the  lamp  in  the  anchored  bark 
Sends  its  glimmer  across  the  dark, 
And  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  sea 
Is  the  only  sound  that  comes  to  me. 

NAHANT,  September  8,  1880, 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning. 


THE   FOUR  LAKES   OF  MADISON. 

FOUR  limpid  lakes,  —  four  Naiades 
Or  sylvan  deities  are  these, 

In  flowing  robes  of  azure  dressed ; 
Four  lovely  handmaids,  that  uphold 
Their  shining  mirrors,  rimmed  with  gold, 
-  To  the  fair  city  in  the  West. 

By  day  the  coursers  of  the  sun 
Drink  of  these  waters  as  they  run 

Their  swift  diurnal  round  on  high ; 
By  night  the  constellations  glow 
Far  down  the  hollow  deeps  below, 

And  glimmer  in  another,  sky. 


THE  FOUR  LAKES  OF  MADISON.        47 

Fair  lakes,  serene  and  full  of  light, 
Fair  town,  arrayed  in  robes  of  white, 

How  visionary  ye  appear ! 
All  like  a  floating  landscape  seems 
In  cloud-land  or  the  land  of  dreams, 

Bathed  in  a  golden  atmosphere! 


MOONLIGHT. 

As  a  pale  phantom  with  a  lamp 
Ascends  some  ruin's  haunted  stair, 

So  glides  the  moon  along  the  damp 
Mysterious  chambers  of  the  air. 

Now  hidden  in  cloud,  and  now  revealed, 
As  if  this  phantom,  full  of  pain, 

Were  by  the  crumbling  walls  concealed, 
And  at  the  windows  seen  again. 

Until  at  last,  serene  and  proud 
In  all  the  splendor  of  her  light, 

She  walks  the  terraces  of  cloud, 
Supreme  as  Empress  of  the  Night. 


MOONLIGHT.  49 

I  look,  but  recognize  no  more 

Objects  familiar  to  my  view ; 
The  very  pathway  to  my  door 

Is  an  enchanted  avenue. 

All  things  are  changed.     One  mass  of  shade, 
The  elm-trees  drop  their  curtains  down ; 

By  palace,  park,  and  colonnade 
I  walk  as  in  a  foreign  town. 

The  very  ground  beneath  my  feet 

Is  clothed  with  a  diviner  air ; 
White  marble  paves  the  silent  street 

And  glimmers  in  the  empty  square. 

Illusion  !    Underneath  there  lies 

The  common  life  of  every  day  ; 
Only  the  spirit  glorifies 

With  its  own  tints  the  sober  gray. 
4 


50  IN  TEE  HARBOR. 

In  vain  we  look,  in  vain  uplift 

Our  eyes  to  heaven,  if  we  are  blind; 

We  see  but  what  we  have  the  gift 
Of  seeing;  what  we  bring  we  find. 

December  20,  1878. 


TO  THE  AVON. 

FLOW  on,  sweet  river!  like  Ms  verse 
Who  lies  beneath  this  sculptured  hearse; 
Nor  wait  beside  the  churchyard  wall 
For  him  who  cannot  hear  thy  call. 

Thy  playmate  once;  I  see  him  now 
A  boy  with  sunshine  on  his  brow, 
And  hear  in  Stratford's  quiet  street 
The  patter  of  his  little  feet. 

I  see  him  by  thy  shallow  edge 
Wading  knee-deep  amid  the  sedge; 
And  lost  in  thought,  as  if  thy  stream 
Were  the  swift  river  of  a  dream. 


52  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

He  wonders  whitherward  it  flows; 
And  fain  would  follow  where  it  goes, 
To  the  wide  world,  that  shall  erelong 
Be  filled  with  his  melodious  song. 

Flow  on,  fair  stream!   That  dream  is  o'er; 
He  stands  upon  another  shore ; 
A  vaster  river  near  him  flows, 
And  still  he  follows  where  it  goes. 


ELEGIAC  VERSE. 

i. 
PEKADVENTUBE  of  old,  some  bard  in  Ionian 

Islands, 
Walking  alone  by  the  sea,  hearing  the  wash 

of  the  waves, 
Learned  the  secret  from  them  of  the  beautiful 

verse  elegiac, 

Breathing   into  his  song  motion  and  sound 
of  the  sea. 

For  as  a  wave  of  the  sea,  upheaving  in  long 

undulations, 

Plunges  loud  on  the  sands,  pauses,  and  turns, 
and  retreats, 


54  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

So  the   Hexameter,  rising  and  sinking,  with 

cadence  sonorous, 

Falls ;  and  in  refluent  rhythm  back  the  Pen 
tameter  flows.1 

ii. 

Not  in  his  youth  alone,  but  in  age,  may  the 

heart  of  the  poet 

Bloom  into  song,  as   the  gorse  blossoms  in 
autumn  and  spring. 

in. 
Not  in  tenderness  wanting,  yet  rough  are  the 

rhymes  of  our  poet ; 

Though   it  be   Jacob's   voice,  Esau's,  alas! 
are  the  hands. 

l  Compare  Schiller. 

Im  Hexameter  steigt  des  Springquells  fliissige  Saule  ; 
Im  Pentameter  drauf  fallt  sie  melodisch  herab. 

See  also  Coleridge's  translation. 


ELEGIAC  VERSE.  55 

IV. 
Let  us  be  grateful  to  writers  for  what  is  left 

in  the  inkstand; 

When  to  leave  off  is  an  art  only  attained 
by  the  few. 

v. 

How  can  the  Three  be  One  ?  you  ask  me ;  I 

answer  by  asking, 

Hail  and  snow  and  rain,  are  they  not  three, 
and  yet  one  ? 

VI. 

By  the  mirage  uplifted  the  land  floats  vague 

in  the  ether, 
Ships  and  the  shadows  of  ships  hang  in  the 

motionless  air ; 
So  by  the  art  of  the  poet  our  common  life 

is  uplifted, 

So,  transfigured,  the  world  floats  in  a  lumi 
nous  haze. 


56  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

VII. 

Like  a  French  poem  is  Life ;  being  only  per 
fect  in  structure 

When  with  the  masculine  rhymes  mingled 
the  feminine  are. 

Vin. 

Down  from  the  mountain  descends  the  brook 
let,  rejoicing  in  freedom ; 
Little  it  dreams  of  the  mill   hid  in  the  val 
ley  below ; 
Glad  with  the  joy  of  existence,  the  child  goes 

singing  and  laughing, 

Little  dreaming  what  toils  lie  in  the  future 
concealed. 

IX. 

As  the  ink  from  our  pen,  so  flow  our  thoughts 

and  our  feelings 

When  we  begin  to  write,  however  sluggish 
before. 


ELEGIAC   VERSE.  57 

X. 

Like  the   Kingdom  of   Heaven,  the   Fountain 

of  Youth  is  within  us  ; 
If  we  seek  it  elsewhere,  old  shall  we  grow 
in  the  search. 


XI. 

If  you  would  hit  the  mark,  you  must  aim  a 

little  above  it ; 

Every  arrow  that  flies  feels  the   attraction 
of  earth. 


XII. 

Wisely  the   Hebrews  admit  no  Present  tense 

in  their  language : 

While  we  are  speaking  the  word,  it  is  al 
ready  the  Past. 


58  IN  TEE  HARBOR. 

XTTT. 

In  the  twilight  of  age  all  things  seem  strange 

and  phantasmal, 

As  between   daylight    and  dark  ghost-like 
the  landscape  appears. 

XIV. 

Great  is  the  art  of  beginning,  but  greater  the 

art  is  of  ending ; 

Many  a  poem  is  marred  by  a  superfluous 
verse. 

1881. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

AWAKE  !  arise !  the  hour  is  late  ! 

Angels  are  knocking  at  thy  door ! 
They  are  in  haste  and  cannot  wait, 

And  once  departed  come  no  more. 

Awake!  arise!  the  athlete's  arm 

Loses  its  strength  by  too  much  rest; 

The  fallow  land,  the  untilled  farm 
Produces  only  weeds  at  best. 


THE  BELLS  OF   SAN   BLAS.1 

WHAT  say  the  Bells  of  San  Bias 
To  the  ships  that  southward  pass 

From  the  harbor  of  Mazatlan? 
To  them  it  is  nothing  more 
Than  the  sound  of  surf  on  the  shore, — 

Nothing  more  to  master  or  man. 

But  to  me,  a  dreamer  of  dreams, 
To  whom  what  is  and  what  seems 

Are  often  one  and  the  same,  — 
The  Bells  of  San  Bias  to  me 
Have  a  strange,  wild  melody, 

And  are  something  more  than  a  name, 
i  The  last  poem  written  by  Mr.  Longfellow. 


THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  BLAS.  61 

For  bells  are  the  voice  of  the  chtirch ; 
They  have  tones  that  touch  and  search 

The  hearts  of  young  and  old; 
One  sound  to  all,  yet  each 
Lends  a  meaning  to  their  speech, 

And  the  meaning  is  manifold. 

They  are  a  voice  of  the  Past, 
Of  an  age  that  is  fading  fast, 

Of  a  power  austere  and  grand; 
When  the  flag  of  Spain  unfurled 
Its  folds  o'er  this  western  world, 

And  the  Priest  was  lord  of  the  land. 

The  chapel  that  once  looked  down 
On  the  little  seaport  town 

Has  crumbled  into  the  dust; 
And  on  oaken  beams  below 
The  bells  swing  to  and  fro, 

And  are  green  with  mould  and  rust. 


62  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

"Is,  then,  the  old  faith  dead," 
They  say,  "and  in  its  stead 

Is  some  new  faith  proclaimed, 
That  we  are  forced  to  remain 
Naked  to  sun  and  rain, 

Unsheltered  and  ashamed? 

"  Once  in  our  tower  aloof 
We  rang  over  wall  and  roof 

Our  warnings  and  our  complaints; 
And  round  about  us  there 
The  white  doves  filled  the  air, 

Like  the  white  souls  of  the  saints. 

"  The  saints  !     Ah,  have  they  grown 
Forgetful  of  their  own  ? 

Are  they  asleep,  or  dead, 
That  open  to  the  sky 
Their  ruined  Missions  lie, 
No  longer  tenanted? 


THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  BLAS.  63 

"  Oh,  bring  us  back  once  more 
The  vanished  days  of  yore, 

When  the  world  with  faith  was  filled; 
Bring  back  the  fervid  zeal, 
The  hearts  of  fire  and  steel, 

The  hands  that  believe  and  build. 

"  Then  from  our  tower  again 
We  will  send  over  land  and  main 

Our  voices  of  command, 
Like  exiled  kings  who  return 
To  their  thrones,  and  the  people  learn 

That  the  Priest  is  lord  of  the  land!" 

O  Bells  of  San  Bias,  in  vain 
Ye  call  back  the  Past  again ! 

The  Past  is  deaf  to  your  prayer: 
Out  of  the  shadows  of  night 
The  world  rolls  into  light ; 

It  is  daybreak  everywhere. 

March  15,  1882. 


TKANSLATKOTS. 


PRELUDE. 

As  treasures  that  men  seek, 
Deep-buried  in  sea-sands, 

Vanish  if  they  but  speak, 
And  elude  their  eager  hands, 

So  ye  escape  and  slip, 
O  songs,  and  fade  away, 

When  the  word  is  on  my  lip 
To  interpret  what  ye  say. 

Were  it  not;  better,  then, 
To  let  the  treasures  rest 

Hid  from  the  eyes  of  men, 
Locked  in  their  iron  chest  ? 


68  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

I  have  but  marked  the  place, 
But  half  the  secret  told, 

That,  following  this  slight  trace, 
Others  may  find  the  gold. 


FROM  THE  FEENCH. 

WILL  ever  the  dear  days  come  back  again, 
Those  day  of    June,  when    lilacs  were    in 

bloom, 
And  bluebirds   sang    their   sonnets   in    the 

gloom 
Of  leaves  that  roofed  them  in  from  sun  or 

rain? 

I  know  not ;  but  a  presence  will  remain 
Forever  and  forever  in  this  room, 
Formless,  diffused  in  air,  like  a  perfume,  — 
A  phantom  of  the  heart,  and  not  the  brain. 
Delicious  days  !  when  every  spoken  word 
Was  like  a  foot-fall  nearer  and  more  near, 
And  a  mysterious  knocking  at  the  gate 


70  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

Of  the  heart's  secret  places,  and  we  heard 
In  the  sweet  tumult  of  delight  and  fear 
A  voice  that  whispered,    "  Open,  I  cannot 
wait !  " 


THE  WINE  OF  JURANCON. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  CHARLES  CORAN. 

LITTLE  sweet  wine  of  Jurangon, 
You  are  dear  to  my  memory  still ! 

With  mine  host  and  his  merry  song, 
Under  the  rose-tree  I  drank  my  fill. 

Twenty  years  after,  passing  that  way, 
Under  the  trellis  I  found  again 

Mine  host,  still  sitting  there  au  frais, 
And  singing  still  the  same  refrain. 

The  Jurangon,  so  fresh  and  bold, 
Treats  me  as  one  it  used  to  know; 

Souvenirs  of  the  days  of  old 
Already  from  the  bottle  flow. 


72  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

With  glass  in  hand  our  glances  met ; 

We  pledge,  we  drink.     How  sour  it  is ! 
Never  Argenteuil  piquette 

Was  to  my  palate  sour  as  this ! 

And  yet  the  vintage  was  good,  in  sooth  ; 

The  self -same  juice,  the  self -same  cask ! 
It  was  you,  O  gayety  of  my  youth, 

That  failed  in  the  autumnal  flask! 


AT  LA   CHAUDEAU. 

FROM   THE   FRENCH    OF   XAVIER   MARMIER. 

AT  La  Chaudeau,  — '  t  is  long  since  then 
I  was  young,  —  my  years  twice  ten ; 
All  things  smiled  on  the  happy  boy, 
Dreams  of  love  and  songs  of  joy, 
Azure  of  heaven  and  wave  below, 

At  La  Chaudeau. 

« 

To  La  Chaudeau  I  come  back  old: 
My  head  is  gray,  my  blood  is  cold; 
Seeking  along  the  meadow  ooze, 
Seeking  beside  the  river  Seymouse, 
The  days  of  my  spring-time  of  long  ago 
At  La  Chaudeau. 


74  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

At  La  Chaudeau  nor  heart  nor  brain 
Ever  grows  old  with  grief  and  pain ; 
A  sweet  remembrance  keeps  off  age; 
A  tender  friendship  doth  still  assuage 
The  burden  of  sorrow  that  one  may  know 
At  La  Chaudeau. 

At  La  Chaudeau,  had  fate  decreed 

To  limit  the  wandering  life  I  lead, 

Peradventure  I  still,  forsooth, 

Should  have  preserved  my  fresh  green  youth, 

Under  the  shadows  the  hill-tops  throw 

At  La  Chaudeau. 

» 

At  La  Chaudeau,  live  on,  my  friends, 
Happy  to  be  where  God  intends  ; 
And  sometimes,  by  the  evening  fire, 
Think  of  him  whose  sole  desire 
Is  again  to  sit  in  the  old  chateau 
At  La  Chaudeau. 


A   QUIET  LIFE. 

FROM   THE    FRENCH. 

LET   him  who  will,  by  force  or  fraud  innate, 
Of    courtly    grandeurs    gain     the    slippery 

height ; 

I,  leaving  not  the  home  of  my  delight, 
Far  from   the  world  and  noise   will   medi 
tate. 

Then,  without  pomps  or  perils   of  the   great, 
I  shall  behold  the  day  succeed  the  night; 
Behold    the    alternate    seasons    take    their 

flight, 

And  in  serene  repose  old  age  await. 
And  so,  whenever  Death  shall   come  to  close 
The  happy  moments  that  my  days  compose, 
I,  full  of  years,  shall  die,  obscure,  alone  ! 


76  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

How  wretched  is  the  man,  with  honors 
crowned, 

Who,  having  not  the  one  thing  needful 
found, 

Dies,  known  to  all,  but  to  himself  un 
known. 

September  11,  1879. 


PEKSOSTAL  POEMS. 


LOSS  AND  GAIN. 

WHEN  I  compare 

What  I  have  lost  with  what  I  have  gained, 
What  I  have  missed  with  what  attained, 
Little  room  do  I  find  for  pride. 

I  am  aware 

How  -many  days  have  been  idly  spent ; 
How  like  an  arrow  the  good  intent 
Has  fallen  short  or  been  turned  aside. 

But  who  shall  dare 

To  measure  loss  and  gain  in  this  wise? 
Defeat  may  be  victory  in  disguise  ; 

The  lowest  ebb  is  the  turn  of  the  tide. 


AUTUMN  WITHIN. 

IT  is  autumn ;  not  without, 
But  within  me  is  the  cold. 

Youth  and  spring  are  all  about ; 
It  is  I  that  have  grown  old. 

Birds  are  darting  through  the  air, 
Singing,  building  without  rest ; 

Life  is  stirring  everywhere, 
Save  within  my  lonely  breast. 

There  is  silence :  the  dead  leaves 
Fall  and  rustle  and  are  still; 

Beats  no  flail  upon  the  sheaves, 
Comes  no  murmur  from  the  mill. 

April  9,  1874. 


VICTOR  AND  VANQUISHED. 

As  one  who  long  hath  fled  with  panting  breath 
Before  his  foe,  bleeding  and  near  to  fall, 
I  turn  and  set  my  back  against  the  wall, 
And    look    thee    in  the    face,    triumphant 
Death. 

I  call  for  aid,  and  no  one  answereth ; 

I  am  alone  with  thee,  who  conquerest  all ; 
Yet  me  thy  threatening  form  doth  not  ap 
pall, 
For  thou  art  but  a  phantom  and  a  wraith. 

Wounded  and  weak,  sword  broken  at  the  hilt, 
With  armor  shattered,  and  without  a  shield, 
I  stand  unmoved ;  do  with  me  what  thou 
wilt ; 

I  can  resist  no  more,  but  will  not  yield. 
This  is  no  tournament  where  cowards  tilt ; 
The  vanquished  here  is  victor  of  the  field. 

April  4,  1876. 


MEMORIES. 

OFT  I  remember  those  whom  I  have  known 
In  other  days,  to  whom  my  heart  was  led 
As  by  a  magnet,  and  who  are  not  dead, 
But  absent,  and  their  memories  overgrown 

With  other  thoughts  and  troubles  of  my  own, 
As  graves  with  grasses  are,  and  at  their  head 
The  stone  with  moss  and  lichens  so  o'er- 

spread, 
Nothing  is  legible  but  the  name  alone. 

And  is  it  so  with  them?     After  long  years, 
Do  they  remember  me  in  the  same  way, 
And  is  the  memory  pleasant  as  to  me? 

I  fear  to  ask ;  yet  wherefore  are  my  fears  ? 
Pleasures,  like  flowers,  may  wither  and  de 
cay, 
And  yet  the  root  perennial  may  be. 

September  23,  1881. 


MY  BOOKS. 

SADLY  as  some  old  mediseval  knight 

Gazed  at  the  arms  he  could  no  longer  wield, 
The    sword    two-handed    and    the    shining 

shield 
Suspended  in  the  hall,  and  full  in  sight, 

While  secret  longings  for  the  lost  delight 
Of  tourney  or  adventure  in  the  field 
Came  over  him,  and  tears  but  half  concealed 
Trembled  and  fell  upon  his  beard  of  white, 

So  I  behold  these  books  upon  their  shelf, 
My  ornaments  and  arms  of  other  days ; 
Not  wholly  useless,  though  no  longer  used, 

For  they  remind  me  of  my  other  self, 

Younger    and   stronger,    and   the    pleasant 

ways 

In  which  I  walked,  now  clouded   and  con 
fused. 

December  27,  1881. 


L'ENYOI. 


POSSIBILITIES. 

WHEEE  are  the  Poets,  unto  whom  belong 

The  Olympian  heights ;  whose  singing  shafts 
were  sent 

Straight  to  the   mark,  and   not  from  bows 
half  bent, 

But  with  the  utmost  tension  of  the  thong? 
Where  are  the  stately  argosies  of  song, 

Whose  rushing  keels  made  music   as  they 
went 

Sailing  in  search  of  some  new  continent, 

With   all   sail   set,   and    steady  winds    and 

strong  ? 

Perhaps    there    lives    some   dreamy   boy,   un 
taught 

In  schools,  some  graduate  of  the  field  or 
street, 


88  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

Who  shall  become  a  master  of  the  art, 
An  admiral  sailing  the  high  seas  of  thought, 
Fearless  and  first,  and  steering  with  his  fleet 
For  lands  not  yet  laid  down  in  any  chart. 

January  17,  1882. 


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